Edge: Apache Death

Edge nodded, holstered his Colt and released the shirt front. Then he turned on his heels, unhitched his horse and led the animal down to the livery stable. When he banged on this door there was no response except for the whinnying of horses inside. There was a big padlock on a central bolt. Edge looped one end of his lariat through the lock, looped the other end around his saddle horn and urged the big stallion forward. The bolt was tom clean off the door as the screws came free. As he climbed down from the horse, Edge heard a door open across the street, then spurs jingling as a man came toward him. But he ignored the newcomer as he began to loop in the lariat, untying it from the lock.

"That's called breaking in, mister," the man said sternly.

Edge hooked the lariat back on his saddle and turned to face the man. He was tall and broad, but not powerful because it was fat, not muscle, that coated his big frame. He had a round, florid face with bulbous cheeks, thick lips and wide nose. His eyes were bright and glittered from between swelled lids. He was dressed like a dude, in highly polished boots, sharp creased gray pants, a red shirt and a high-crowned hat the same color as his boots. He wore two pearl-handled six shooters slung low in ornate holsters on a belt ringed with shells. The shells shone almost as brightly as the five pointed star pinned above his heart.

"My horse needs feed and rest out of the sun," Edge said easily. "He's carried me a long way and I owe him that."

Emphasizing this opinion, Edge picked up the trailing reins and led the animal into the shaded interior of the livery stable.

"Fred Olson will be here to open up in an hour," the sheriff said, following Edge inside.

"So I saved him the trouble," Edge answered.

"Fred's liable to press charges for the damage you caused," the sheriff insisted as Edge began to unsaddle his horse.

"He can put it on my bill."

The sheriff shook his head. Might not be so easy as that. I could square it, though. Fred's a friend of mine. I could talk to him,"

Edge, his back to the man, grinned, swung the saddle free and hefted it on to a hook on the wall. He backed the horse into a stall, closed the door and broke open a bale of hay, tossing half of it to the animal. Then he turned to face the sheriff, showing the man his grin. "That how you buy those fancy" clothes?" he asked."With kickbacks for fixing things?"

The fat man glowered. "Rainbow's a nice town, stranger. I run it smooth. Ain't no room for awkward customers."   

Edge made a move toward his saddle, but as he drew close to the sheriff he half pivoted and sent a short arm jab deep into the fat man's mid-section. Air rushed out of the man's mouth with a soft whooshing sound and he started to double. As he did so, Edge stepped behind him and pulled the two revolvers from their holsters. They were 1860 streamline Colts, .44 caliber with the original plain ivory grips replaced by carved pearl. Edge grimaced with distaste, figuring the modification had ruined the balance. "Listen, you barrel of lard," he said-softly, lips curled back in a snarl as the sheriff turned to face him, trying to pull upright. "I ain't no greenhorn fresh off the stage from New York City. I've had dealings with your kind before and I ain't never greased any palms." He spun the cylinder of each revolver in turn and emptied them of their loads, the bullets as shiny as the ones in the sheriff’s belt. "Don't threaten me, fat man, or I might just beat you over the head with these pretty guns and you might spill blood on your pretty clothes. Get it?"

The sheriff stared hate, but nodded his head as he still leaned forward slightly, clutching at his stomach. Edge grinned and slid the Spencer from his saddle-boot, then headed for the door. There was a pile of horse manure swept into a comer and with a sidelong glance at the sheriff he dropped the Colts on top, used a pitchfork to prod them deep down inside.

"Just a little something for trying to drop me in. it, sheriff," he said as he went out on to the street.

A bugler was sounding reveille at the fort and somewhere at the back of one of the buildings a woman was singing. Two Chinese were taking down the shutters from the laundry windows and a horse and buggy was parked outside the church. A woman stood beside a tombstone in the graveyard, holding a wreath of flowers. The burro and body of Zeb Hanson was no longer in front of the undertaker's parlor. An elderly but still attractive woman looked down at Edge from a first-floor window of the Pot of Gold. She was wearing a blue diaphanous nightgown that hinted at a body not yet past its prime.

"You open yet?" he called up, halting in the center of the street in front of the hotel.

She laughed and it was a tinkering sound, without harshness. "Depends what for:"

“Just a room with bed and bath."